


the heart of a child and the wit of a fool

by crownedcarl



Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Gun Violence, M/M, clumsy idiots flirting through some pretty rough stuff: the fic, not even an injury is gonna stop these two from being Soft, these tags are all over the place but i PROMISE this is mostly light-hearted!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: The day had started out on a high note, too, with Dwight sitting across from him and sipping his coffee leisurely, coyly humoring Duke's lazy come-ons before it had all been blown to hell - and it has been, because Duke might be a sweet talker, but a date is probably the last thing on Dwight's mind, all things considered.A man gets shot and romance might just end up on the backburner. Life goes on, Duke tells himself.
Relationships: Duke Crocker/Dwight Hendrickson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	the heart of a child and the wit of a fool

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Half Moon Run. This is an entirely self-indulgent fic and I am not sorry about it whatsoever. I had tons of fun writing this and I hope if you enjoy this fic, you do me the honor of leaving me a comment - I'm always looking for feedback on what was good and what wasn't. I hope this sparks joy! ❤
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://dickardgansey.tumblr.com/) for those interested and you can check out my other Haven fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl/works?fandom_id=9218791)!

The first thing Duke becomes aware of, once he comes to after the literal dust has finally settled, is the shape of the body slumped beside him on the floor.

The broad shoulders are a dead giveaway all on their own. It helps that the vest that hampers Duke from getting a solid grip on Dwight's shirt basically spotlights the chief of police sprawled next to him, but it does nothing to soothe Duke's already fraying nerves. His eyes sting and water from his up close and personal meeting with the not-yet swept floor. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, he muses, dizzy with fading adrenaline.

For a moment, staring at Dwight's back, Duke entertains the idea of it all being a big prank - maybe Dwight will spring to his feet and laugh any second now, because in all the time Duke has known him, he's never seen Dwight down, before. It's a difficult image to reconcile with the dependable giant of a man Duke witnessed being abruptly brought to his knees.

Duke tries to find his voice through the surreal visual of sunlight cheerfully streaking Dwight's back, as if there isn't gunpowder lingering in the air. "Squatch?" he tries, crawling forward on his hands and knees through a mess of shattered glass - that'll be a bitch to sweep, Lottie is going to give him _hell_ \- but when Duke closes the gap and shakes Dwight's shoulder, he doesn't so much as stir.

For a moment, fear drips ice-cold down Duke's spine.

"Quit it," Dwight groans after a moment of panicked breathlessness on Duke's end, staring at Dwight where he's still laying face-down on the dirty floor. His eyes flutter open only to narrow in Duke's general direction, hazy and unfocused. "I'm fine."

Those, Duke thinks, are mighty big words from a man who looks like he's gone two rounds with a brick wall and then decided fuck it, let's go for a third, but as long as Dwight stays in the land of the living, Duke's in no position to complain.

Much.

"He lives," Duke croaks, clearing his dry throat and falling heavily back on his ass. He gropes around on the floor for his cellphone, knowing that it skidded away earlier, when everything was happening too fast and his hands were getting too clammy to keep a hold of it, "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Dwight sighs, his breath puffing up a little cloud of dust. He makes a face before slowly rolling over to lie on his back. It's almost comical, how the dust clinging to his beard and eyebrow makes one side of his face look eerie and alien, naked, somehow. "What the hell was that?"

Now that's the question Duke was hoping Dwight would answer.

* * *

Later, after the cavalry arrives fashionably late, Duke keeps a close eye on Dwight as he wobbles down the stairs of the Gull before promptly sitting down on a waiting stretcher, a contrite expression pasted on his face.

It figures - the man shrugged off a bear trap to the ankle, after all. Why would he let something as insignificant as a potential concussion and one bullet too many stop him, now?

Duke puts his foot in his mouth the moment he decides to peel back the layers of irritation on Dwight's face by blurting "He's bleeding," to the hovering paramedic, who turns her eyes on Dwight in professional scrutiny while Dwight pins Duke with a betrayed glare.

It's not all that visible, now that Dwight has had the time to adjust the vest over his gray henley, but Duke saw him wiping blood off on his pant leg after sticking a hand up the front of his own shirt. Dwight isn't as discreet as he prides himself on being.

"Hey," Duke defends himself, crossing his arms tightly, "Forgive me for not wanting you to bleed out on me, right?"

It's in that moment that Audrey comes up to them, exchanging quick words with Dwight before coming at Duke in a tense jog, managing to stop just shy of crashing into him. He feels a little disoriented, all of a sudden, when she puts a hand on his shoulder and Duke's world goes tilting precariously, like he's a ship in a bottle being handled carelessly.

"We need a medic," Audrey calls out before she so much as speaks a word to Duke, "Hey, someone-"

"Audrey," Duke exhales, carefully peeling her hand off of him, "I'm fine. Not a single hair on my beautiful head was ruffled."

It makes her smile, which is good. It makes her roll her eyes in exasperation, too, which distracts her from prying deeper into that blatant lie, which means that's a job well done. Duke would give himself a pat on the back if his shoulder wasn't aching something fierce from clipping the counter in freefall.

Audrey squints at him, then asks "You're sure?" and for a moment, Duke wonders if it's really going to be that easy to shrug off her concern, if maybe he's been a little _too_ successful in his facade. Before the doubt can really creep in and make a home in the pit of his stomach, Audrey scoffs "You let me be the judge of that."

Duke obliges, for once, warmth simmering in his stomach. As Audrey checks him over, Duke doesn't give her too much trouble - except that he plays up a wince when she turns his face by the chin, and he even shimmies his hips suggestively when Audrey cops a feel of his ribs, laughing outright at her attempt at biting down a smile.

"Officer friendly, huh?" Duke grins, his smile only broadening when Audrey smacks his arm - gently, at that.

He remembers, apropos of nothing, that he's really not the person in need of a thorough once-over. Duke cranes his head to peer at the empty stretcher where Dwight once sat, quickly scanning the parking lot for any signs of him, coming up short when he finally turns back to Audrey. She's frowning at him in that particular way of hers - balancing concern and fond amusement, a questioning twitch to her mouth.

"Big guy," Duke offers by way of explanation, shrugging. A little cloud of dust kicks up from his sweater. "You think I look bad, you should've seen him."

It's a stupid attempt at levity that falls flat and Duke cringes from his own light-hearted tone, how he can't help but make a joke out of everything, like life's a ball and he's the debutante.

"I did," is what Audrey responds with, "He said he was fine to give a statement."

Duke throws a hand up in silent, infuriated exasperation. "Oh, did he?" Duke mutters, "Mister I'm a tough guy, I'll walk it off said he was _fine?_ He said just that?"

He can see the moment where Audrey realizes her error. For all that Dwight is dependable and level-headed, he's not always all that great at telling the truth, sometimes, at least where his own health is concerned. Case in point, once again: the bear trap. Duke still cringes from the memory of it, sometimes.

"Crap," Audrey mutters, biting her lower lip a shade of bruised pink, glancing at Duke with an apologetic set to her mouth, "Alright, you have a point. I'll send him off with the ambulance."

"You know, I somehow doubt he's going to agree to that," Duke remarks absently, offering Audrey a tight grin as he tries to imagine wrangling six feet of muscle and disdain into the ambulance, "How about we keep this contained to the parking lot?"

Cocking her head, Audrey considers the proposition with more patience than Duke expected. "Right," she slowly drawls, dragging the word out carefully, "You, stay where I can see you."

"Yes, mom."

Even when Audrey turns away, Duke catches her smiling.

He mills around, dusting his clothes off while he tries to make a mental tally of the damage done to the Gull, coming up with numbers he really, really doesn't like. Duke ends up putting a hand to his wincing forehead when he realizes that yeah, he's going to have a pretty lean few months coming up fast. He tries to take it in stride; at least he's alive to do the poor-man's struggle instead of being splattered on the floor of his own damn restaurant.

He checks his phone, noting two missed calls from Nathan and one text from Audrey, dated about half an hour ago, when Duke happened to be kissing the floor and trying to stay as still as possible, barely allowing himself the momentum necessary to draw breath. He sighs, electing to store the information somewhere safe until later, when he'll be able to sort through his thoughts in the quiet of his own home.

Duke rocks back on his heels, finally electing to stick his nose in everyone's business, peering inside the scene of the crime, now crawling with cops and forensic investigators. "You mind?" Duke mutters, side-stepping a tech with a frankly giant camera strapped around her neck, weaving between people until he reaches the place where Nathan and Dwight are standing, their heads ducked together.

They look like gossiping schoolboys. Duke wonders where _that_ friendship had the time to bloom, considering Nathan's hand on Dwight's bicep. "Am I intruding?"

Before Nathan can say anything, Duke steamrolls past it with a lazy "Statement taken, right? Now, can someone catch me up to speed on why I had the pleasure of making like a dog and playing dead, huh?"

Nathan's expression shutters. Duke sighs.

* * *

Later, after the yellow tape has been unceremoniously plastered across the Gull and Duke has been dismissed by a tight-lipped Nathan, Duke lingers in the parking lot, hands buried deep in his pockets.

The entire day has dragged on for what feels like years. He shuffles his feet in place, tugging absently at the tear in his sleeve, peering at the scratch beneath the wool and counting himself as the luckiest man in the world for getting off basically scot-free.

The day had started out on a high note, too, with Dwight sitting across from him and sipping his coffee leisurely, coyly humoring Duke's lazy come-ons before it had all been blown to hell - and it has been, because Duke might be a sweet talker, but a date is probably the last thing on Dwight's mind, all things considered.

A man gets shot and romance might just end up on the backburner. Life goes on, Duke tells himself.

Dwight's shoulders are tight, visible to see even from ten yards away. He walks on over while Duke pretends to be engrossed in his phone, looking up in faux-surprise as Dwight halts in front of him, Duke trying and failing at not eyeing Dwight's downturned mouth. "They didn't give you the all clear," Duke muses, "'cause you didn't let them get a proper look."

"Still got the all clear," Dwight fires back, shifting restlessly, tugging on the bottom of his vest. "I need a favor."

Interest piqued, Duke nods his head, drawling "Lay it on me," and casually glancing at the bullet-torn landscape of fiber in front of him. It's a miracle nobody forcibly dragged Dwight to the damn hospital, yet. It's a bigger miracle that none of the bullets sank a fatal half-inch deeper.

Dwight sighs, long and loud, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need you to dig a bullet out of me."

Duke's brain goes briefly offline, a record skipping ahead a track. He gives Dwight a look that's all bemusement, repeating "You need me to dig a bullet out of you," to an affirming nod from Dwight.

"Look," Dwight groans, running a hand through his hair, "It's a fragment. I checked. You're not squeamish, are you?"

Duke feels a little faint. The world tilts again. "Right," he manages, "Me and troubled blood aside, what the _fuck?"_

He narrows his eyes, reconsidering his entire world view, because there is no way that Dwight is this reckless, or this stupid. No way in hell, except he's standing there asking for Duke to perform amateur surgery on him like he's asking to borrow a cup of sugar.

"I can't convince you to go to the hospital, can I?"

"Not a battle you're going to win," Dwight agrees quietly.

Whether it's pride, stubbornness or a bad history with hospitals, it doesn't matter. Duke groans, gesturing vaguely at Dwight, trying to come up with an appropriate response that won't set Dwight off - god forbid he gets it in his head to pluck the damn bullet out _himself._

"You kidding me? You'd take a back-alley patch job over a nice, sterile ER?"

Duke's voice lands flat between them; it falls right on its face under Dwight's narrow gaze, his eyes reflecting the uneasy grin stretching Duke's mouth. The logic of Dwight's decision is questionable at best, but Duke can't say there isn't a part of him that'd have done the same thing - that _has_ done the same thing, before, after too many drinks landed him in fights he couldn't win.

Without missing a beat, Dwight offers a cagey "I trust you," that tugs on Duke's heart like a fish caught on a hook, because when it comes down to it, trust is the last thing he'd expect from Dwight.

You toss a guy into a harbor and there's bound to be a lingering suspicion living in the awkward silences the two of them always seem to get caught up in, an orbit neither of them can escape, but Dwight says _I trust you_ and Duke's not heartless enough to shoot him down.

It doesn't mean anything, but it has the potential to mean everything.

"Besides," Dwight goes on to add, his voice a whisper between gritted teeth, "It's not that bad. Don't want to waste their time."

"Oh, but you'll waste mine?"

Dwight grins. It's muted by discomfort and no small amount of wincing, but it's a grin all the same and Duke sighs, rolling his eyes, gladly getting in on the joke when Dwight casually mutters "Sounds about right."

Duke squints at him. In the right light - or maybe the wrong one - Dwight's hair looks almost like spun gold. Duke's heart jumps into his throat, unbidden.

* * *

Dwight hops in Duke's truck and Duke follows the direction he's given until they're pulling up in front of a quaint little house, white picket fence included. "Huh," is all he says, trailing behind Dwight as he ambles to the front door and unlocks it a little clumsily, abandoning Duke in the entryway while he disappears behind a corner.

Duke has always been good at rolling with the punches. When Dwight calls him into the living room, Duke follows the sound of his voice and tries not to wince at the _thud_ Dwight's vest makes as it hits the floor. He's almost certain he can hear a bullet rolling across the polished hardwood.

"You know what you're doing," Dwight states, giving Duke a look that screams _I hope to god I'm right about this_ and Duke nods once before taking the medical grade tongs he's handed.

After a deep breath, Duke asks "Do I wanna know why you happen to have these lying around?"

"I'm a collector," Dwight mutters and despite the reach, Duke chokes out a tiny laugh.

Dwight's body elongates when he stretches his arms up above his head, stripping off his ruined shirt. There's a lot of him to look at, but Duke gets stuck staring at the mottled bruises painting Dwight red, eyes tracking lower to stare at the place where the skin is broken apart. Unless he's seeing things, there's a glint of something metallic buried in Dwight's pec.

It might not even be a bullet, now that he thinks back. Everything seemed to blur together in the moment, but Duke saw Dwight take a fall onto the remnants of a rickety old chair, how it splintered at the legs. It's not impossible, Duke rationalizes, that a stray piece of metal detailing pierced the vest.

Dwight drags out a stool from the kitchen, sitting himself down on it with a thread of tension racing across his shoulders. "I'm good," he tells Duke, "I already cleaned it."

"Of course you did," Duke grouses, carefully stepping between Dwight's spread knees, "Right. Try not to deck me for this."

Duke rolls on a nitrile glove and then he's leaning in closer, where Dwight is shining the narrow flashlight right up against the wound, giving Duke a good look at the ragged edges of the skin. Not a lot of blood, all things considered. Duke winces before parting the skin a little wider and Dwight's breath catches, like he's tripped over something and is waiting for the crash landing to hit him.

Conversationally, Duke asks "Nathan give you any info on the punks that wrecked my restaurant, squatch?" as he peers at the inflamed skin from every angle he can manage.

It's not the best topic to keep Dwight distracted, but it's the best Duke can do on short notice while he's faced with playing doctor, a role he's woefully unequipped for.

Dwight's jaw clicks before he mutters "Idiot kids strapped for cash," like it really can be that simple, sometimes, as if they haven't been living in a nightmare version of Haven since the troubles upended everything. "Guess they were counting on getting you alone. The gun was just...incentive."

"Didn't feel like incentive," Duke spits quietly, "Felt a lot like a threat, to me and I didn't even get shot."

Dwight glances sidelong at him. One of his hands is clenching in Duke's sweater.

It's not entirely clear, the sequence of events where Duke went from fixing Dwight an Americano on the house to the part where the two of them were laid out on the floor by two punks with the backup of proper firepower.

Duke's hands stopped trembling an hour ago. It's a small victory, in the grand scheme of things.

"I thought you were a goner," Duke sighs, refocusing, finally choking down on the urge to upchuck enough to dig the ends of the tongs into Dwight's skin, trying to grasp at the sliver of black _something_ that's nestled itself deep enough that Duke has to keep readjusting in order to get a grip.

Funny; the day started with a much more pleasant conversation between the two of them. Duke even did the patented lean, elbows on the counter, giving Dwight's mouth little glances. It figures the day ends with that prospect blown to shit. The universe gets one over on him again.

Dwight offers a quiet, tense "Could've gone a lot worse if you hadn't kept your head cool. Pretty sure those brats are out there thinking they're wanted for murder, now," and Duke laughs, because what is there left to do, now that the anger and fear and helplessness has been drained out of him?

The two of them hadn't been alone. Duke had a couple of delivery guys hanging around, but at the bang of the door and the sight of the gun, his produce guy had high-tailed it out the door, his friend following hot on his heels, but Duke wasn't in any state to register anything other than paralyzing fear, hammering behind his ribs.

He had heard the gun go off once, twice, three times - he lost count once his ears started ringing - and Duke remembers rolling himself over, laying in a puddle of spilled ale and praying to every god he could think of that he'd live to see tomorrow.

There had been this moment where he had been convinced he was done for, but then someone squeaked out a shaky "We gotta go," and Duke had heard the sound of a panicked shuffle followed by something heavy hitting the ceiling, crashing into a beam up high. Moments later, a section of the structure came plummeting down above his head and the next time Duke had dared to open his eyes, Dwight was still down.

The tongs clink together. Dwight shudders harshly, gripping Duke's sweater tighter. Duke offers a meek "Sorry," and keeps digging, damn near fumbling the tongs to the floor when he finally strikes gold - or wrough iron. Same difference, in the end, when Duke finally retreats back, a little metal shard falling harmlessly into his gloved palm.

Dwight tilts his head back and exhales, like he's been holding the breath forever. Duke grins tentatively, patting Dwight's cheek with his bare hand, huffing "You were a champ."

Shame about today, Duke thinks. It could've ended with dinner. Instead, well, here they are, in Dwight's sunny living room, not looking at each other.

"You know," Duke chuckles, "When I thought about getting you half naked, this wasn't what I had in mind," and it's a stupid joke, but Dwight places his elbows on his knees and laughs, anyway, as he slaps a flimsy-looking bandaid across the wound that looks a hell of a lot cleaner, now, but without stitches, Duke knows it'll heal ugly. "You want-?"

"No," Dwight shakes his head, taking the long way around Duke's joke, "Thanks, though. You're a lifesaver. There's nothing more you can do."

Duke stands up to discard the glove and the fragment in the trash, dropping the tongs in the sink, aiming a sly grin at Dwight's back.

"Unless you want me to try kissing it better-"

Duke catches the roll of gauze Dwight punts at his head, grinning. "Don't you dare," Dwight sighs, eyes sparkling despite the wry curve of his mouth. "I don't know where you've been."

"Ouch. Way to treat the guy who pieced you back together, huh. I'm hurt."

"Are you, though?" Dwight asks with a searching glance at Duke. He stands, dragging a tank top over his head and only wincing minutely as it tugs on his wound, "You went down hard, too."

Duke did, didn't he? His shoulder smarts, but there's nothing anyone can do. Duke knows how to ice and lay off the joint for a few days, but he offers Dwight a one-shouldered shrug, the left side drooping with the motion. "I'll be stiff and cranky," Duke grins, "But I'll live."

The entire time he was inches away from Dwight's bare skin, Duke couldn't quite build up the nerve to revel in it. Right now, he's kicking himself for that oversight, because a next time might not come around any time soon.

He clears his throat, clapping his hands together in an effort to disturb the odd tension hanging like a raincloud between him and Dwight. "Right," Duke says, "I guess I'll be going."

Dwight hums and Duke rocks back on his heels before blurting "Let me just check that bandaid for you," and he gravitates back towards Dwight, a bundle of restless energy as he closes the distance for a second time, catching Dwight off-guard, practically shoving him back down in his seat. "Just, you know. Can't have you messing up my handiwork."

He tilts closer, their foreheads almost touching. Dwight's hand finds Duke's sweater again.

"Duke."

"What?"

Dwight's eyes are very, very bright. "I changed my mind."

Duke peers up at Dwight through his lashes, making a confused noise low in his throat, all animal sound in the stillness.

Dwight's hand falls from the hem of Duke's sweater to his thigh. "Kiss it better," Dwight sighs, his nose brushing so close to Duke's that he swears he can hear a whisper of skin against skin, a tickle of warmth at the point of almost-contact.

Duke stares at Dwight in open surprise, placing one hand slowly on Dwight's shoulder and memorizing the shape of it, how his palm molds to sinew and muscle, thumb finding the place where Dwight's pulse beats the hardest and finally, he huffs a tired, amused "Not the seduction I had planned," before adding a quick, reassuring "But it'll do."

Dwight groans something that sounds vaguely like "Do it before I change my mind," but it's hard to make out the words when Duke kisses them right out of Dwight's mouth, relaxing into the bright _newness_ of it.

He swears that he can taste tired laughter when he goes for kiss number two.


End file.
